Another thing, you must move from Brooklyn.’
“‘Move from Brooklyn?’ I repeated.
“‘Yes,’ he answered, firmly. ‘I do not think it necessary to give you a reason for this condition. Enough that it is imperative. If you decline, our negotiations are at an end.’
“I looked at my husband. He seemed as much surprised as I was.
“‘Perhaps you will wish to consult together,’ suggested our visitor. ‘If so, I can give you twenty minutes. I will remain in this room while you go out and talk it over.’
“We acted on this hint, and went into the kitchen. We decided that though we should prefer to live in Brooklyn, it would be worth our while to make the sacrifice for the sake of the addition to our income. We came in at the end of ten minutes, and announced our decision. Our visitor seemed to be very much pleased.
“‘Where would you wish us to move?’ asked your father.
“‘I do not care to designate any particular place. I should prefer some small country town, from fifty to a hundred miles distant. I suppose you will be able to move soon?’
“‘Yes, sir; we will make it a point to do so. How soon will the child be placed in our hands? Shall we send for it?’
“‘No, no,’ he said, hastily. ‘I cannot tell you exactly when, but it will be brought here probably in the course of a day or two. I myself shall bring it, and if at that time you wish to say anything additional you can do so.’
“He went away, leaving us surprised and somewhat excited at the change that was to take place in our lives. The next evening the sound of wheels was heard, and a hack stopped at our gate. The same gentleman descended hurriedly with a child in his arms—you were the child, Frank—and entered the house.
“‘This is the child,’ he said, placing it in my arms, ‘and here is the first quarterly installment of your pay. Three months hence you will receive the same sum from my agent in New York. Here is his address,’ and he placed a card in my hands. ‘Have you anything to ask?’
“‘Suppose I wish to communicate with you respecting the child? Suppose he is sick?’
“‘Then write to A. M., care of Giles Warner, No. – Nassau Street. By the way, it will be necessary for you to send him your postoffice address after your removal in order that he may send you your quarterly dues.’
“With this he left us, entered the hack, and drove off. I have never seen him since.”
CHAPTER III
LEFT ALONE
Frank listened to this revelation with wonder. For the first time in his life he asked himself, “Who am I?”
“How came I by my name, mother?” he asked.
“I must tell you. After the sudden departure of the gentleman who brought you, we happened to think that we had not asked your name. We accordingly wrote to the address which had been given us, making the inquiry. In return we received a slip of paper containing these words: ‘The name is immaterial; give him any name you please. A. M.’”
“You gave me the name of Frank.”
“It was Mr. Fowler’s name. We should have given it to you had you been our own boy; as the choice was left to us, we selected that.”
“It suits me as well as any other. How soon did you leave Brooklyn, mother?”
“In a week we had made all arrangements, and removed to this place. It is a small place, but it furnished as much work as my husband felt able to do. With the help of the allowance for your support, we not only got on comfortably, but saved up a hundred and fifty dollars annually, which we deposited in a savings bank. But after five years the money stopped coming. It was the year 1857, the year of the great panic, and among others who failed was Giles Warner’s agent, from whom we received our payments. Mr. Fowler went to New York to inquire about it, but only learned that Mr. Warner, weighed down by his troubles, had committed suicide, leaving no clew to the name of the man who left you with us.”
“How long ago was that, mother?”
“Seven years ago nearly eight.”
“And you continued to keep me, though the payments stopped.”
“Certainly; you were as dear to us as our own child—for we now had a child of our own—Grace. We should as soon have thought of casting off her as you.”
“But you must have been poor, mother.”
“We were economical, and we got along till your father died three years ago. Since then it has been hard work.”
“You have had a hard time, mother.”
“No harder on your account. You have been a great comfort to me, Frank. I am only anxious for the future. I fear you and Grace will suffer after I am gone.”
“Don’t fear, mother, I am young and strong; I am not afraid to face the world with God’s help.”
“What are you thinking of, Frank?” asked Mrs. Fowler, noticing the boy’s fixed look.
“Mother,” he said, earnestly, “I mean to seek for that man you have told me of. I want to find out who I am. Do you think he was my father?”
“He said he was, but I do not believe it. He spoke with hesitation, and said this to deceive us, probably.”
“I am glad you think so, I would not like to think him my father. From what you have told me of him I am sure I would not like him.”
“He must be nearly fifty now—dark complexion, with dark hair and whiskers. I am afraid that description will not help you any. There are many men who look like that. I should know him by his expression, but I cannot describe that to you.”
Here Mrs. Fowler was seized with a very severe fit of coughing, and Frank begged her to say no more.
Two days later, and Mrs. Fowler was no better. She was rapidly failing, and no hope was entertained that she would rally. She herself felt that death was near at hand and told Frank so, but he found it hard to believe.
On the second of the two days, as he was returning from the village store with an orange for his mother, he was overtaken by Sam Pomeroy.
“Is your mother very sick, Frank?” he asked.
“Yes, Sam, I’m afraid she won’t live.”
“Is it so bad as that? I do believe,” he added, with a sudden change of tone, “Tom Pinkerton is the meanest boy I ever knew. He is trying to get your place as captain of the baseball club. He says that if your mother doesn’t live, you will have to go to the poorhouse, for you won’t have any money, and that it will be a disgrace for the club to have a captain from the poorhouse.”
“Did he say that?” asked Frank, indignantly.
“Yes.”
“When he tells you that, you may say that I shall never go to the poorhouse.”
“He says his father is going to put you and your sister there.”
“All the Deacon Pinkertons in the world can never make me go to the poorhouse!” said Frank, resolutely.
“Bully for you, Frank! I knew you had spunk.”
Frank hurried home. As he entered the little house a neighbor’s wife, who had been watching with his mother, came to meet him.
“Frank,” she said, gravely, “you must prepare yourself for sad news. While you were out your mother had another hemorrhage, and—and—”
“Is she dead?” asked the boy, his face very pale.
“She is dead!”
CHAPTER IV
THE TOWN AUTOCRAT
“The Widder Fowler is dead,” remarked Deacon Pinkerton, at the supper table. “She died this afternoon.”
“I